Crimson Noir
by bartagnans
Summary: A bleak, urban setting of hard boiled detectives, femme fatales, and corrupt, cynical characters can be the most alluring of world's to endure. AU Mike/Max


_I felt compelled to write a story in the style of Film Noir, and who better to write around than these two brilliant characters. Originally, I wrote it for another pairing but now I find the dynamic fits "Maxton" best of all. Quite obviously, it shan't follow the events of the show and it will be set many years prior. Please read with an open mind, review if you wish and hopefully, enjoy the simplicity in a complicated time._

_Disclaimer: I regrettably own nothing._

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**CRIMSON NOIR**

* * *

_I'm near the end, _

_I've accomplished nothing, _

_And as I look into the sky, oblivion_

_You are, beautiful noir,_

_Cinematic film that only I see_

* * *

Snow filtered its way down from the dull, gray sky above and floated slowly past Mike as he walked along the cracked and rolling pavement. It's snowing, it's dark, it's night and he finds himself wishing he was home in his - equally dark - apartment, watching the rare sight of snowfall from his window with nothing but a bottle of Scotch as company: _It's better than most_, he thought.

Alas, he sighs upon arrival at the scene, his job demands more of his life than anyone could possibly expect.

Mike takes one last draw of his cigarette before letting it fall from his fingers and stomped on it with the heel of his shoe with more vigour than the damned thing deserved. Troy, his cohort in crime, chuckles at him as he fumes silently within himself, wondering if he had smiled once since he took up residence in the city.

"Detective," a familiar voice greets him. Mike's gaze is on her before she outs the word, and over the lifeless carcass of yet another Jane Doe, he sees the very reason he hasn't quit or left the city; the reason for his almost smiles; the slight leap his heart dares to take each time he sees those deep, blue eyes, far darker than his own subtle shade of cyan.

She was the dearest, the loveliest, the fairest rose with all the sting and sharpness of its thorns. And Mike would challenge Brontë by throwing himself into the deep end, if only Max - Inspector Hardy, he has to remind himself - would give him the time of day.

He couldn't admit he was in love, of course. Although, her uncle, Ryan had told him he didn't have to. It was each time he left the confines of the city to venture back to his home state Virginia, his family noticed how relieved he was to simply breathe air that wasn't home to smoke. If it weren't for his eagerness to return to his new life which seemed so miserable, they'd not have suspected a thing. Perhaps he could've even salvaged all those lost weekends his three brothers spent pestering him over the phone about finally forgetting the girl.

He always chalked it up to their blatant disregard of his own personal life, not to mention private affairs that left him going to work on Monday mornings with a hangover. It wasn't at all to do with the fact that he had made no progress whatsoever in _'getting the girl' _rather than forgetting her; at least, that's what he forced his heart to believe.

"Inspector," Mike replied, matching her cold tone and no one would have suspected they had once been friends; he was once able to address her by her given name rather than her newly promoted title. Alas, time was a fickle thing and his atonement had yet to suffice in her eyes.

Mike watches her circle the body of the girl too young to have lived a life before she, apparently, ended her own. He can tell by the look in Max's eyes that when the landlord ceases his nervous prattling, his words haven't registered true in her mind and instead, she dismisses the prospect of suicide and proclaims it an official homicide.

With her words, now steel in the ears of her subordinates, the forensic crew begin assessing the scene and Mike can't help but think there really was no need for her to call him down here; she could've waited to brief him in the morning when he arrived at the precinct.

A sigh crept from his lips again as he turned to leave, spinning right back when she called for him. He hoped she hadn't noticed the spark of hope within his eyes as he found her face again. The faint smile he saw there as she approached him had told him that she had: his eyes betraying him.

"I don't suppose a nightcap is in order?" She asked him with a strangely playful glint in her eye; her figure silhouetted in the streetlamp lit lane.

If his mind hadn't stalled just then, he'd have thought that the smile gracing his features had been the first to appear there in a long time, "Yours or mine?" he asked.

Max had decided on her own apartment seeing as it was closer and the weather wouldn't allow for a comfortable stroll towards Mike's place of residence.

Eventually, they get inside and their bodies welcome the sudden warmth of the fire. Drinks are poured one after another while they share in a long overdue conversation.

The long, sweet hours whittle away without either of them noticing – far too engrossed in random jollies and the soothing company of each other. Mike thinks, as he watches her from the opposite side of the window, that she knows not what their gatherings mean to him. He treasured and valued any moment he was able to spend with her, for it was only in those junctures of time did he feel at peace – her presence chasing away the loneliness he ultimately felt in the crowded city of New York.

Despite her stoic demeanor in the professional settings, when alone, she would often dare to touch his hand and even sometimes – on parting – share a warm embrace: one to hold him until again they meet over drinks and shared forlornness.

True, life in the city was not for the likes of Mike but like any other man of his ilk, an incentive was to be found even in the most wretched of places.

For her, he'd endure it.

* * *

_You are, beautiful noir_

_Beautiful noir, beautiful noir_


End file.
